Permission To Write About Your Family

Permission to write about anything in your life, really.

Hi friends.

Good morning, there’s a heat wave here, but perhaps there’s one where you are, too?

Yesterday, carelessly barefoot, I ran out back to the shed to switch the wet laundry from the washer to the dryer, and I burned my feet on the hot concrete. The dog had followed me outside, looking for a good time, not understanding either how hot it would be, and when I looked at him, his tail was between his legs. “Let’s go hide, you and me,” I said to him, and we ran up the stairs and hurled ourselves into safety of the air-conditioned house.

All this time alive on this planet and I didn’t know any better than to run outside with bare feet during a heatwave. I’ve always been sort of dumb about the physical, which is not meant to demean myself, it’s just an accurate assessment. I live in my head so thoroughly, that most days I’m barely in this body. I’ve been a bone-breaker since a young age. Nicks and cuts and scars, too, and I wasn’t even trying to do anything, I was just existing half the time. Too much focus on the brain, too much attention on whatever little stories I was trying to tell in there. I have such a respect for and sense of camaraderie with any of us who are just trying to get their stories out of their head and into the world. Sometimes I just want to tell you all everything will be OK, just as long as you try.

Here is one of the top issues I hear about with storytelling: People tell me all the time that they can’t write a particular story—or sometimes even write anything at all—while their parents are still alive. They’re stopped cold in their tracks. This discussion is something that comes up multiple times a year, in emails, DMs, at readings, workshops I’m teaching, in casual chats with friends or strangers. And this concerns me, because I want people to write.

There’s only way I know how to respond to the issue anymore.